by Shawn Inmon
“I can’t imagine what that would be.”
A small smile lit Thomas’s face, then faded. “In 2009, your Uncle Ted died.”
A flicker crossed Anne’s face.
“You didn’t go to his funeral." He paused to let that sink in. "That was so unlike you. You were the kindest, most generous person I knew, so it was really odd that you didn’t go to a relative’s funeral, when it was only a half hour’s drive away. I also realized that I had never met Uncle Ted, which was weird, too. By then I’d met all the aunts and uncles, on down to the third cousins. But, I’d never met Ted.”
Anne's eyes looked over Thomas’s shoulder, focused on nothing he could see.
“I probably should have just left you alone about it, but you know me. I don’t know when to stop. I want to stop now, but I think I have to see this through. Honesty."
He could see her hand clench the armrest. Her voice radiated dread. "Go on. Tell me."
"I kept pestering you about it, and you kept not telling me. Finally, I broke out my secret weapon. A bottle of Grand Marnier that I’d been saving as a birthday gift for you. You didn’t drink much, but you loved that liqueur."
"I haven't had that in ten years! You don't...maybe I'd better not speak too soon. Maybe you do. I'm sorry, Thomas, this is hard."
"I am sure it is, and don't feel bad. All of this is sure to be emotional. So what happened was that I got a few glasses of that down you and…well, you didn’t come clean, exactly, but I got the gist of what had happened, why you never went anywhere near Uncle Ted. Do I have to tell you what you told me that night?”
Anne shook her head vehemently. She wiped tears away, but more came. It took all she had to meet his eyes. “Thomas. How could you possibly know that?”
“Because, Mom, my mind is fifty-four, and because that happened the way I describe it. I believed you then, and I would believe you now if you confirmed it, but I won't ask you to. I hated to bring up something so painful. I never will again, but it was the only way I knew to really show you who I am. I want you to believe me. I think I might go a little crazy if I don’t have someone to talk to. I had Carrie, but…”
“Hold on. You mean you told Carrie about this? And she believed you?”
“That’s one of those 'other things' I wasn’t going to talk to you about yet. Carrie had done the same thing. Lived the same life over and over.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.” No reason to tell her about all thirteen of her lives, or that she committed suicide in all of them. This is complex enough already.
“This is so hard for me. But I hear a maturity in your tone, your words. Sounds weird in a teen voice, but the way you think of all this sounds like anything but a teenage boy. Even so, it's still hard.”
“I’d be a little worried about you if it wasn’t hard for you. This is the most unbelievable thing anyone has ever told you. I understand. I don’t expect you to take it all in immediately. It’s just that, I’d been lying to you since I got here, and I couldn’t keep that up. There was an old Facebook posting—”
“A what?”
“Crap. Sorry. Gotta remember when we still are. It doesn’t matter. There was a story about a professor who asked a boy to hold a glass of water out in front of him. It was easy for the boy. It was only a glass of water. But, after fifteen minutes, the glass started to shake. Another ten minutes and the boy dropped the whole thing. It wasn’t the weight of the burden, it was how long he’d had to hold it. That’s how I was starting to feel—like I was already shaking and about to drop the whole thing.”
Anne nodded slowly, but didn’t speak.
What a friggin’ rollercoaster ride. She believes me, though. She can tell when I’m telling her the truth. So what’s she going to do with a time traveling son?
“I can’t believe it, but I believe it. I believe you.” She rediscovered the can of Tab, took a drink. “Still, I can’t let this change everything. You might be older than me on the inside, but your outside still looks like the fifteen-year-old boy I’ve always loved. So, for all the world to know, that’s who you are. Agreed?”
“Agreed. I don’t know enough secrets to convince everyone else about who I really am, anyway. And Mom, if there's one person I'd want to be able to tell the whole truth to, it'd be you. I'm happy with that.”
Something in Anne's eyes glowed from deep in the soul. “One question, then I want to turn my brain off for the rest of the night. Did you really try to kill Michael Hollister?”
“I did. I mean, that wasn’t my intention when I woke up that morning, but when he walked by me in class, all I could think about was what he did to Carrie. I don’t even know what happened after that. I really thought I’d killed him, but I guess I just choked him until he passed out, dammit.”
“But, how can you be sure he killed her? Just because you remember him killing people?”
“That was part of it, but there was more. Remember, he ate Amy’s turd because of me–"
"Okay, if what you say is true, you know why this has to come out." Anne faltered a bit finishing the sentence, then laughed until the tears came. "God, I know I am not supposed to laugh about that, but if he grew up to be a serial killer, then it was the least someone could do, feeding him dog poop. Okay, sorry."
"No problem, Mom. You needed that. And you heard what I told his dad about his animal abuse hobby. So, I knew he wanted to hurt me, and he thought hurting Carrie was the best way to do it. He was right. That’s why I asked you where they had found Carrie. As the West Coast Strangler, Michael always put his victims at rest stops. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when you told me.”
“Okay. That might not be enough to convince a judge and jury, but at least I see why you did what you did. Can we agree that’s not a good solution, though? No more of that? And please, promise me, no more dog poop sandwiches for anyone?” He could see the stifled laughter as her Mom/nurse persona asserted control.
“Yes.” If the letter works, I won't need to. Is there even a snowball’s chance that will work? Based on my track record, the Magic 8 Ball says, “Don’t count on it.”
Anne polished off her Tab. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. Starving. Confession is good for the soul, but it makes you hungry, too.”
“Well, that, and the full day of chores I left you.”
“Good point. Can we talk about a parole from the endless labor?”
Anne ignored that, walked into the kitchen, and put a frying pan on the stove.
Thomas watched her take hamburger out and start forming it into patties. Hamburgers sounded good. He leaned back into the cushions of the couch, and for the first time in months, he relaxed.
Chapter Fifty-Two
ANNE LET UP on the chores list, but she still left Thomas one or two things each day. He didn’t mind. Their house was looking rather spiffy relative to their modest neighborhood.
It was mid-afternoon on Thursday, the day before Zack’s graduation. Thomas sat at the kitchen table, Algebra II book open in front of him, scratching the back of his head.
Carrie Copeland, where are you when I need you?
The thought made him wince. Shit.
He refocused on trying to solve the equation in front of him when he saw Zack’s Camaro slide into its customary parking spot. Zack slammed the driver's door behind him. That caught Thomas’s attention.
The only time Zack ever hurries is on the track. What fresh hell is this, then?
Zack slammed through the sliding door at the front of the house and exploded into the kitchen.
“Holy shit, did you hear?”
If only I had a small object I could keep in my pocket that would tell me news from all over the world instantaneously.
Zack didn’t wait for a reply. “They arrested Michael Hollister.”
Thomas jumped up from his chair. “What? When? How? Why?”
Zack stopped dead. “I don’t know. That’s pretty much all I know. We were in the middle of rehearsal fo
r graduation. They were trying to teach us how to walk together, as if we haven’t been doing that since kindergarten. We were listening to the same crappy song over and over again and I was about to lose my mind. It was hot and we were all sweating our asses off because Ms. French was making us wear our stupid robes. Revenge for calling her ‘Ms. French Kiss' all those years, I suppose.”
Thomas made an impatient come on, come on hand gesture.
“Oh. Right. Anyway, two police officers came in and asked to speak to Michael. One of them was that guy that came here to the house. I didn’t even think Michael was going to show up for Graduation. He’s still looking pretty nasty from the beating you gave him, but he was there.”
That almost sounded like pride in his voice. Like Zack is proud of me.
“They stood off to the side talking for a little while, then he put his hands behind his back, they cuffed him and took him away. He looked like he might be crying.”
Oh. My. God.
Thomas sat back down, hard.
Was it me? Did I do it? It had to be, right? How else?
Thomas let his head drop, not wanting Zack to see the tears that were forming.
“Oh. Hey. You’re not gonna lose it on me again, are you.”
Thomas was silent, but shook his head.
Zack moved close to his brother and put an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay. I get it. You can lose it if you want.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
BY THE TIME Zack, Anne, and Thomas arrived at Graduation the next night, everyone knew the story. The version circulating at Middle Falls High was that Michael Hollister had been enough of an idiot to send a letter taunting the cops, saying he would kill again. The details were a little fuzzy on how they had tracked this letter back to Michael, but somehow they had.
Well, that worked. But he's not convicted yet. His dad has the kind of money that can buy justice.
Thomas spotted Ben and Simon milling around inside.
“Where do you want to sit, Mom? I’m gonna talk to some friends for a minute, then I’ll come sit with you.”
Simon spotted Thomas and waved him over. “How is Middle Falls High’s great white boxing hope? Do you prefer Thomas Ali, or Thomas Frazier? We were just bummed that we didn’t get to see you pound the ever-lovin’ shit out of Hollister. We would have been cheering you on, and that was before we knew he was going to get arrested.”
Thomas blushed slightly. “I shouldn’t have done it. You know smug he is. He said something to me about Carrie and the next thing I remember, I was sitting in the Principal’s office.”
If that had happened in 2016, half a dozen kids would have filmed it with their iPhones and it would have been on YouTube instantly. Another advantage of growing up in the seventies.
“I’ve been locked up at the house, so other than Zack telling me that he’d been arrested, I haven’t heard anything. What have you guys heard?”
Ben started to speak, then hesitated. “Sure you want to know?”
“I’m sure.”
“As usual, there’s a million rumors, but the gist of it is that Michael was a big enough idiot to send a letter to the cops and somehow they traced it back to him. That was enough to get a search warrant for his house. Even his dad's lawyers couldn’t stop that from happening. When they searched his room, they supposedly found a necklace that belonged to Carrie.”
Goddamn it. That was a trophy. The sick bastard took a trophy to remember her by. I hope he rots forever in prison. It won’t bring Carrie back. Nothing will. It’s the best I can do. I’ve got to let go of the rest. "And then they searched his car," said Simon.
“When they searched his car, the rumor is that they found some hair and…” Ben looked away, swallowed. “…and, some blood. They’re going to test it to see if it’s Carrie’s blood type and if it the hair matches hers. I have no idea how they can tell that. There’s some other really crazy stuff, like they found some pretty awful Polaroids, but you know how it is.”
“I do. Where are you guys going to sit?”
“No idea,” Ben said. “Maybe we can catch up with you after.”
“Maybe. Mom wants to take Zack out somewhere after the ceremony, but I have a hunch that’s not gonna happen. See ya.”
Thomas found Anne, sat down, and waited for things to get underway. All around them, people glanced at Thomas, then looked away. Anne noticed.
“Are you famous or something?” she asked.
“Famous for being the guy that beat up a killer, I guess. I can think of better things to be famous for.”
To the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, the 279 graduates of Middle Falls High School, Class of 1976, began filtering in to take their seats on the auditorium floor. As a Weaver, Zack was among the last to enter.
Thomas leaned over and whispered to Anne, “Is Dad coming?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him or talked to him since he was at the house.”
“Good.”
The ceremony was as long and boring as any high school graduation. Chipper teacher’s pets gave interminable speeches on the value of looking forward, keeping America great, and how putting your nose to the grindstone solves all of life’s ills. The commencement speaker was a local pastor who reminded them of the importance God would play in the success or failure of their lives.
One final punishment of ultimate boredom before the system sends them off to the workforce.
At last the time came to hand out the diplomas. By the time Zack got to the stage to receive his, the ceremony had gone on for two and a half hours. Out of the corner of her mouth, Anne said, “I hope Zack doesn’t do something stupid here.”
Thomas chuckled a little. It would be entertaining to see Zack lift his robe and moon the audience, but he probably wouldn't.
When the announcer finally said, “Zackary David Weaver,” Zack bounded up the stairs, turned, took a small, courtly bow to the audience, and accepted his diploma like an adult. Anne let out the breath she had been holding. She knows it could have been much worse.
It didn't take long after that. After the expected burst of mature maternal emotion, once outside in the cool night air, Anne grabbed Zack.
“We’re going out to grab a late dinner to celebrate. Are you coming?”
Zack, so tall in his cap and gown, looked down at his mom and kissed her cheek. “Yeah… no. Places to be, people to do and all that, you know.”
Anne lifted her eyebrows at Zack, a sure-fire warning. Even that wasn’t enough to bring him back to earth.
“Gotta run. Love you!”
And he was gone.
“Looks like it’s just the two of us, Mom.”
“In more ways than one, huh? Soon, he’ll be gone for good.”
Hopefully only in the empty nest sense, rather than the previous life's sense.
Anne’s eyes were misty. “So, where do you want to go? I’m buying.”
“Anywhere. Or, we can just go home, heat up some leftovers, and see what’s on TV.”
Anne whispered into Thomas’s ear, “Sometimes I love having a middle-aged teenage son.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE NEXT WEEK, Thomas got their old lawnmower out of the shed, gave it a tune-up, and put signs up around the neighborhood, offering to mow anyone’s lawn for $5. He soon had a sunburnt nose, grass-stained socks, and all the work he could handle.
Maybe I can get enough to buy myself a beater car before Zack leaves. I really don’t want to have to ride the bus all next year. I remember in Back to the Future, Michael J. Fox made himself rich by betting on sporting events. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring a sports almanac with me, don’t remember any of it, and would have no idea how a fifteen-year-old kid could place a bet in Middle Falls, Oregon, anyway.
Each day, he took his pay and added it to the roll he had tucked away at the back of his sock drawer. Another fifty lawns and I might be able to swing a ’62 Dodge Dart in serious need of new springs and tires.
Zack spe
nt the summer like a burned out businessman on a three-month holiday. The worries and responsibilities of high school were behind him, and he was not the type of person to anticipate any troubles that college might bring. Time passed, Thomas mowed, Zack partied, and every day the date of the accident drew one day nearer. The closer it got, the tighter Thomas felt.
Everything I’ve seen since I got back here tells me that things change. Nothing has played out the same. Still, I remember Carrie telling me that Zack had died in every single one of her lives. It’s possible that Zack’s death is one of those watershed moments, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Finally, the day arrived: Friday, August 13th, 1976. The day had loomed so large for so long that it felt a little disorienting to see it dawn.
Thomas woke up early, showered, and checked his mower before hitting the first of three jobs he had scheduled for the day.
Things are different already. Last time, I think I slept ‘til noon and didn’t do a lick of work.
He got home from the third job a little after noon and made himself a ham sandwich and soup. He was almost done when Zack wandered into the kitchen, hair askew, sleepy-eyed.
“What time is it?”
“Almost 1:00, princess. Must be nice to do nothing but sleep all day.”
Zack smiled muzzily, smacked his lips, and said, “Yeah, actually, it is. Hey, by the way, there’s another party tonight, out at Victoria’s house. I promised you I’d take you to one of my parties before I went off to college, so we better do it tonight. I’m leaving for school pretty soon. Capiche?”
Okay. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Same date, but it’s a party, not a kegger at the lake, right?
“Ah, that’s all right, Zack. You don’t have to.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I promised you on your birthday that I would take you and introduce you. I’m getting a little partied out, so this might be the last one I go to before I leave for school.”
Which is better? Change the scenario even more by not being there, or try to change things as they might happen by being there? Crap, nothing is ever easy.
